Dear Diary,
Cheese? I fail to be aroused by it. Oh the times I have encountered folk who eulogise about its flavour and aroma and I stare in disbelief. I dare to fear what further 'delights' these fellows will open their mouths for. I find myself thinking of the very first person who discovered cheese. What possessed him or her on finding some old and foul smelling milk containing glutinous lumps to lift one out and ingest it? It seems more often in recent times that I find myself backing out of The Scullery with my handkerchief over my nostrils after my olfactory organs have been assailed by a stench that puts me in mind, well, of little more than vomit. Mrs Crutchlow is ever keen to find new varieties and I fear she is experimenting herself with left over milk from the farm. Was it not bad enough that after what has seemed like the longest week since the dawn of time itself, and one of the most dismal of days as far as amusement is concerned, that I had to suffer cheese and biscuits in the parlour at lunch? I would never have imagined that it could get any worse and yet this very evening Doctor Proctor called with the news that Old Collette Fairfax was dead. It seems that she was found in the woods earlier this afternoon lying with a protective arm over her faggots and he believed she had been dead for at least two days. He did not go into details, and frankly I am grateful for my stomach was still delicate after my close proximity to the cheese, but horrifyingly, it seems some woodland creature had feasted upon her corpse. The Doctor said the Parson is convinced she was killed by the wolf he believes he saw. I retired to my room and felt quite numb. Could I have been the last living soul she encountered in her life? Were the last words she heard, mine, branding her a liar? To think I had bemoaned this day which Old Collette may have been happy to endure. What an end to a life! And what could have feasted upon her? Whatever it were I am in no doubt that they probably would also be partial to cheese!
Kristin Chenowith - Home
14 years ago
2 comments:
My dear Mr. Austen,
pray do not berate yourself over the death of that uncouth woman Colette Fairfax.
I sense God's hand at work in this. Given her age and sex, she was almost certainly a witch and I suspect that the good Lord struck her down for impeding the progress of her betters.
I personally strip and search for witch marks, ALL of my female staff and the wives of my tenant farmers at least once a week and I would strongly encourage Christian minded landowners to do likewise.
Yours etc, Sir Studly Buckwell
My dear Mr Buckwell,
Indeed you appear to be a man of great wealth and standing though somewhat hard upon your minions. I myself would direct someone else to handle those women and concentrate my efforts upon their menfolk but I appreciate your hard standing as I always do in a gentleman.
Yours breathlessly,
Wayne Austen.
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